Wasteland Wastrels
by Colvine
Summary: A series of short or not-so-short one-shots related to the Lone Wanderer, within the same series as Humanity and Epilogue, which are recommended reading, but not strictly necessary. Rating will probably increase later.
1. Death Warmed Over

**Disclaimer: **Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.

**Warnings:** Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.

**Summary:** He likes to think he's enlightened, but he's still afraid of the monsters in the dark. This takes place sometime before the events of _Humanity_, and before (obviously) _Epilogue_. Just in case someone cares that much about timelines.

**Death Warmed Over**

I'll be honest, when I first walked into Moriarty's saloon, the sight of Gob nearly had me walking right back out the door again. Physically, he was a pretty repellent creature, and the way he stood, hunched over and waiting for a blow, made him seem all the more repulsive. I wanted to recoil in disgust. But strangely, the politeness driven into me from years and years of life in that godforsaken Vault stuck with me very firmly.

It served me well then, gaining me the friendship of a good, kind and honest man. It makes me wonder how many other people I might have misjudged because of initial feelings of dislike or disgust. Gob is an honest, trusting and loyal soul, the sort of person, honestly, that I could fall in love with. But when it matters, I am apparently shallow, and I recognize that in myself. This reality, like so many others I encounter out here, makes me desperately unhappy; that he should be deprived of the sort of happiness that most of us can find in other people, in each other, because of the terrible things that radiation has done to his body. Has he, have all ghouls, not suffered enough already?

Apparently not.

I try to think of myself as enlightened towards ghouls. Compared to most Wastelanders, I am. But I still hold myself slightly away from them, physically, because of what they are.

They are a reminder to any whole person, any smoothskin, of the terrible, lurking danger of the Wastes, waiting for any traveller fool enough to run out of medication and clean food and water. Their appearance is disgusting and repulsive to us because in them we see ourselves, dead. They are dead men and women – their skin rotting away, hair and teeth falling from their heads, flesh rotting and decaying – but still they walk among us, a cruel reminder that death is constantly waiting. It waits for us, hoping to catch us unawares – around the corner, across the way, in the hands of our fellow humans, at the claws of a wild beast, even within the very food we eat. They terrify us, not only because of their potential to become feral, but also because they taunt us with the death that we can never escape.

Because of this, and so many other little things, I have to steel myself before entering the Museum of History. More specifically, Underworld. It is a visit long overdue – I have been just about everywhere else that people have settled down in the Wastes, except here. This place, I'm afraid I'll have trouble with.

Thistle pushes me towards the door impatiently; my healthy, non-ghoul flesh is attracting the Super Mutants, and that is the last thing she needs right now. I try not to imagine the rotting flesh of her hand; try not to wonder if she's lost any skin, or if it is clinging to the back of my leather armour. I try not to shudder, too, but I think I fail. She draws away from me, seems disappointed that even the shining hero from the Vaults is frightened by the monsters.

The zombies.

Inside, Underworld has a strange, musty odour. There is the standard aroma of decay, and a whole lot of unwashed people and waste. But here, there is also the faint, pungent scent of rotting meat drifting as an accompaniment to the olfactory barrage. It makes me feel sick.

I stride forth confidently, despite my misgivings, and I treat any ghoul in my way like the human beings they are. I trade my scrap to Murphy for desperately needed stimpacks, and he gives me a RadAway for half-rate (because it's not like ghouls need them). I talk to Gob's 'mother' Carol, and she seems like a wonderful, sweet old woman.

And Crowley, well, Crowley isn't a crazy murderer because he's a ghoul, he's a crazy murderer because he's batshit crazy, and greedy. And frankly, I've met smoothskins who were worse; Mr. Burke comes to mind.

A friendly, lonely ghoul girl behind a shop counter smiles sadly at me, and gives me a book. Her smile and her eyes just about break my heart, and I've seen them before. On Gob's face.

All of this just goes to reinforce my conviction that they deserve to be treated the same as us, because they mostly _are_ the same as us. But still, it's so hard not to recoil when faced with the prospect of touching what amounts to a decaying body, albeit one that is still moving around.

I try to get over it, by putting myself in contact with them more and more, forcing myself not to shy away too obviously from physical contact and even initiating it myself from time to time. I let the crazy druggie barber cut my hair, for fuck's sake.

It sort of works, but only in that it numbs me to my disgust. I can never quite manage to eliminate the initial, visceral reaction, but I suppress it very well, for the most part.

I am extremely happy to see Riley, broken and battered though she is, because she is what they are not – human. That sounds cruel – it probably is cruel – but I can't help myself.

And then I meet Charon.

Well, meet is a generous word. More accurately, I run into the stone wall that is Charon. I run into him only in the conversational sense, of course, because even I'm not stupid enough to touch someone as bristly and defensive as Charon; not with a ten foot pole. All I can get from him is 'Talk to Azrukhal,' plus some eventual undertones of irritation.

I used to pride myself on being able to irritate even the most stoic of the Vaulties. I have since learned that this is not a survival skill worth hanging on to.

So, reluctantly (I have some distrust issues with bar owners), I do just that. He leers at me and I sneer, asking shortly about the big, close-lipped ghoul in the corner. He smirks at me and explains the contract. I feel a sudden rush of pity and sympathy for the ghoul and ask, impulsively, what it would take for him to part with the contract. He names a price while I am still surprised at myself. His price makes me a lot more surprised. I splutter – I haven't been out here long, but it has been long enough to know that 2000 is a _lot of money_.

And yet, still, there is a part of me, the one that my father must have devoted his whole life to, that kicks and screams and says it doesn't matter _how _much it is, it's still worth less than Charon's freedom. It isn't all of me, anymore, though – I've grown a harder, callous shell to my thinking, and that part of me tells me that it may be worth less than his freedom, but it may be worth more than my life.

I can't afford it.

And from the look in Azrukhal's eye, I don't want to know about his 'alternative payment' bullshit, either. So I walk away, trying not to look Charon in the eye (I'm afraid I'll see anger, an accusation, or worse, nothing).

Then I actually talk to Riley, who has finally woken up, and I'm plunged into yet another 'frantic fight for your life' mess. But Charon's strange, dull eyes will haunt me for long nights, weeks afterwards.

* * *

So, like the summary says, this will be a series of oneshots, featuring _Humanity's_ Lone Wanderer, because I've been ordered to write more (which is really, really, really flattering, by the way). They will probably jump all over the place, so no cohesive story, or particular order of events. I'll just write them and post them as they come to me. I'll see you when the next inspiration hits me!

Colvine


	2. Unnecessary Heroics

**Wasteland Wastrels**

**Disclaimer: **Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.

**Warnings:** Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.

**Summary:** The Lone Wanderer breaks his promise.

This takes place after the events of _Humanity_ and (just) before the story _Epilogue_.

**Unnecessary Heroics**

"Promise me," he asks lowly, leaning his elbows against the railing. I glance at him nervously – it doesn't look especially steady – before looking away again as I feel his gaze fall, burning in its intensity, upon my face.

I wish he wouldn't ask me that. "You know I can't."

"Won't. It's not the same thing, and you know it." I hate the way his voice sounds – so defeated. He's probably right to sound that way, though. It really is only a matter of time.

I look out at the setting sun, gazing at the blue-green swathes of unidentified chemical gas. They're surprisingly beautiful. "I know," I say to him, quietly. I don't know if I really intend for him to hear it. We stand together in silence. "I'm sorry."

* * *

I look into Sarah's eyes, stare into the striking blue-green for a long moment, and neither of us look away. She really is beautiful. I look down fleetingly, and then I know that I'm about to break my promise to him.

* * *

"Why can't you just stay here?" he asks me, later.

I look over at him, sadness sitting heavily on my chest. "Because I have to see this through to its end. My father left me for this project, and I have to believe that it is worth the risk."

"What have the Brotherhood of Steel ever done for you, exactly? You don't owe them anything. They can do this without you," he says, voice deep and sincere and desperate. It is so rare that he opens himself like this, and to see it now cuts at me. I am hurting him, and it isn't something I can stop doing, not yet.

'No, they can't. Because they are big, and unwieldly, and stupid and uninvolved,' I want to say. 'Clean water is too important to ignore,' I want to say. There are so many things that I could say, and one of them is the right one, the one that will make this all better. But I can't find it, in the twisting writhing mass of words cluttering my head.

I want the same thing that he does, right now – to turn away from the large, sweeping adventures and just live small lives, with comfortable, familiar routines. I want to do it by his side – with him.

I want to tell him that.

Lately, being away from him has made me feel… discontented. I find myself running my hands over guns and possessions repeatedly, searching for the thing that is missing, because I can feel so clearly that _something_ is not here, and it should be.

I want to tell him that he is more important to me than any of it, because in my greedy, guarded heart, he is. But the ghost of my father is standing over my shoulder, and he won't let me rest until I have done 'what is right.'

I hate him, sometimes. My father.

I can't say any of this, though. One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, apparently, although that sounds like a load of bullshit. I wrap my arms around him tightly. He tenses then relaxes, and brings a hand up to stroke along my back. I whisper, "No, they can't. I'm sorry," into the soft skin of his neck. I clutch him tighter, desperately. It feels like he is slipping away from me, just like everything else. My home, my family, everything that I knew.

I love you.

I kiss him, and he kisses back with fervour. Maybe he feels it too.

I'm glad we're in his room, because I don't plan on letting go of him anytime soon.

* * *

"I can do it," she cries, voice harsh and rough. Her hand closes around my arm, oiled mechanical joints pressing harder than she probably intends. That'll leave bruises (not that it matters, not anymore) and I push her hand off. "You didn't even pull the short one – tell me the code! Don't go in there, please, you don't have to!"

I swallow around a massive lump that has appeared in my throat. She doesn't want to die, I know that. But she is almost fighting me for the chance to do so. And she's doing it for me. That's all the more reason not to let her. "Yes I do. If I'm wrong, I have a chance to think of a new one – you'd have no idea."

She looks away, guiltily grateful, and I feel a moment of horrible, angry resentment – she is going to live, and I am about to sacrifice myself for her, and why isn't she fighting me?

I look around the rotunda, heart pumping too fast with adrenaline from the fight that we have just won. I'm pretty sure I'm injured, but I can't really feel it yet. I'm grateful. James and C.J. are standing by the door, holding their guns warily – the battle has taken its toll on both of them. I catch his eyes, and he starts walking towards me. She follows. He doesn't know what's going on yet, but I think she's figured it out.

As they are approaching, I reach into the front of my chest plate – metal, for this special occasion – and pull the letters out. It's incredibly depressing, but at the same time I had this horrible feeling that it would be necessary. I really hate that I'm right.

She reaches us first, and puts her hand on my shoulder, looks me straight in the eye. I swallow, blinking away burning behind my eyes, and hold my hand over hers for a second before passing her the bundle, wrapped tightly in a leather sheet for safety. She hugs me, wrapping strong arms around my neck before stepping out of the way for James.

He looks at the straw still clutched almost delicately in Sarah's armoured hand, then at my own face, and something there makes him understand. "No! No, you can't!" he cries, grabbing me by the shoulders. "Please, let's just, just leave, we can, we can… Please, don't," his voice fades, muffled because his face is pressed to my shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around me. I'm amazed at how much these two have changed, from young and enthusiastic and intense to hardened and competent and so serious. C.J. hardly talks, now, although her words are sharp and effective when she does, and James... Well, James has unwound enough to be gripping me this desperately. I'm unbearably proud of who they have become.

I rub his back and sigh, resigned to the tears that are blurring the world around me. "You know I can't, James. If I don't, we die, and everyone else will soon enough. Clean water, James. It's worth it, it really is." I wish those words could take away my terror, my regret, my anger. At least they're helping him – his shoulders have stopped shaking, at least.

"It's not fair," he whispers. I hear C.J. sob into her hand and then pull him away from me. She knows he won't let go voluntarily, and no one could expect me to push him away from me, not now.

I kneel down, ruffle the dog's fur and press my face into his neck, and then push him gently towards the others.

"I know. That doesn't really change much. You know I… I'm proud of you, James. Good luck, to both of you. To… to all of you, I guess."

I can't help but feel that this should be more… something. There is a small part of me that expects theme music, or for something miraculous to happen and save the day. Save _me_. I really wish I had befriended a Ghoul, who could just walk in and fix this. Maybe I should have bought Charon's contract. Apparently it would have saved my life after all.

I drop Eden's virus on the floor and stomp on it vindictively, allowing myself one act of malice before- before I break my promise.

* * *

He is on top of me, inside me, all around me. I slide a hand to the middle of his back, pull him closer desperately until we are pressed together, chest to chest and I can kiss him. It's almost too much, between his cock in me and his hand on me and chests sliding together and now hot, wet mouths pressed against one another.

It feels so good, so right, and I'm still so terribly afraid that this isn't going to last, that something will happen, take him away from me.

He presses again, just right, and I moan, deep in my throat, let my head fall back, my grip going slack before tightening convulsively. It is rushing and intense and I want to shut my eyes but I can't look away from him.

Words spill from my lips, a mantra, an incantation, "I love you, I love you, you're amazing, I love you." His lips apply themselves to my neck and chest, my hands find purchase in the soft, sweat-damped hair at the back of his head.

He shudders powerfully, thrusts again, and again. I gasp as his hand speeds up, pulling me with him.

Panting, he rolls off of me and onto his side. I prop myself up on an elbow once I have my breath back and flatten my hand against his cheek, feeling the roughness of slight stubble along his jaw, the smooth, almost harsh lines of his face, the smooth, softness of his lips, and feel a moment of wonder at him. We have never really discussed how much of him is mechanical and how much organic, but it has been years, and he operates as if he is entirely human. I wonder why they would create him that way – so perfectly real, so incredibly human.

He covers the hand with his own. Looks at me with those clever, warm, dark eyes and I break.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. It isn't fair, what they're asking of me, but it has to be done. Water. _Clean_ water. It could save so many people. I can't turn them down. After this, I'm done. I want to stay with you, in this big ugly tub. I won't ever look out another goddamn window if you don't want me to. But I have to do this – we need this, we could solve so much with this."

"I know. I hate it, but I know. Just, promise. No unnecessary heroics. Promise you'll come back to me."

"I promise."

* * *

The next morning I dress, pack my bag, put on my guns, say goodbye to him quietly, and slip something into the pocket of the Regulator Duster hanging from the wall. Just in case.

* * *

The radiation hits me almost like a physical thing, the malicious sting of the radiation eating at me with every second that passes, every corrupt, contaminated breath I take.

I really wish I wasn't doing this.

I walk laboriously to the control panel, painstakingly key in the code, and hit the enter key with unnecessary force. Drawing deep, laboured breaths, I wait. When the purifier whirrs to life, I sigh, turn, and slide to the floor. I look out through the glass panel as my vision clouds, and faces blur. I imagine that I can see him out there, waiting for me.

_I'm sorry_. _I didn't mean to break my promise._

I shut my eyes.

* * *

This is totally for Kantata, who casually mentioned this idea, and then poked me once or twice with a pointy stick to get me moving – you were right, this was fun to write, although the ending is bugging me. :)

Colvine


End file.
